


Cornered Rat

by Gryphonrhi



Category: Highlander (1986 1991 1994 2000 2007), Highlander: The Series, The X-Files
Genre: Community: crossovers100, Crossover, Gen, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex Krycek picks the lock of the only antiques dealer in Manhattan who'd hide him from the police just to piss them off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cornered Rat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rana Eros (ranalore)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranalore/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, no money made, you know the routine. Written for Rana, who wanted Krycek if I did X-Files, and Connor, Cory, or a few others if I did Highlander. This was supposed to be a few paragraphs. As in, oh, three or four. Oops. Also covers another HL Crossover, whee! Prompt # 94 -- _Independence_. Beta work provided by Raine, Devo, Misha, and tarsh -- all remaining mistakes to be laid at my door for correction.  
> Rated: PG-13 for language and m/m interest.

The guy's barely shorter than I am, I doubt he's lighter, and I'm starting to think he's every bit as dangerous. He's also an ironclad son of a bitch, and his balls are clearly brass and baseball-sized.

"The lock's not broken, my alarm didn't go off, and I didn't call you and don't want you." There's a precise, vicious edge to his voice, and an accent I don't recognize: French? Belgian? Swiss? Somewhere that's used to a mix of languages, but the rasp in it isn't smoke-induced. "You don't have a warrant. I don't have to let you in without one."

The cop can't even get a foot into the gap the guy's left between door and jamb, and his persuasion's not getting far either. "Look, sir, there's a dangerous--"

He cuts the cop off without hesitation. "The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized. Constitution of the United States, Fourth Amendment, ratified fifteenth December, 1791, when Virginia voted for it."

That sharp, sarcastic voice slices through the cop's attempts to cut him off. "But I'll translate it for you. No warrant, no entry." He closes the door firmly, snaps the lock into place, and turns around... to look straight at my patch of shadow. "You're good, and you're quick, but you're on my territory. Give me a reason not to throw you to them."

I've already spotted two weapons in his coat and one of them is either a length of pipe or a sword. Either way, the coat's tailored to balance it, and this guy thinks it's supposed to be there. I was right, too. Hard, dangerous, _smart_ eyes. Fuck.

I step out of the shadows, hand out and empty. "Because you don't like cops."

"Heh." He's amused, though. It's in his eyes, behind his voice, and I risk a grin. It might not have worked, though, because he says, "The other hand too. While I still have my sense of humor."

I bring it up, slow enough not to risk getting shot. I've got gloves on and I don't think the jacket left a gap for plastic to show but it doesn't seem to matter; he catches on immediately. "Already been thrown to wolves once, hmm?"

His eyes are moving fast, pausing at my face, my shoulders, my hands, my belt, my hips, my boots. He just placed every weapon I have, how much sleep I haven't had, and how desperate I am... and filed all of it. None of it's in play yet. It may never be. Christ, whoever this guy is, he's very good, and I don't want him pissed at me. He's too fucking professional and I've never heard of him.

I shrug a little. "I'd ask who you are, but then you'd do the same thing and it's safer if you don't know. Let me have a couple hours, until they leave--"

"They'll be gone in an hour, or a fortnight. It depends on how badly they want you." He's still looking me over, but now I don't know what he's seeing, or how he's weighing it. For a moment, he's looking at something that isn't me at all, then he nods. "Russell Nash. Come upstairs. You need a shower and food. We'll get you out tomorrow night, when it's calmed down and they've decided I'm not helping you."

All I can do is stare at him. I need help; that doesn't mean I thought I'd get any. "Why?" Then his name clicks and all I can say is, "And they quit investigating you?"

"They had a witness. I wasn't the one they were looking for." He chuckles again, that rasping sound, and there's humor in it with something more dangerous under that. "Not by half a foot, fifty pounds, and a lot of hair that I had and he didn't."

"You didn't say you didn't have anything to do with it." I shouldn't have said it, and he sees that cross my face. I let him. I don't want Nash pissed at me, and I sure as hell don't want him angry when he's hiding me from a lot of police who'd take me in, process me, and leave me in a holding cell that would be my last sight on earth.

Nash just watches me -- _Headhunter 3, Cops 0_ the papers screamed; I remember that file, and I remember that same deadly alertness in his photo in the file; Mulder was fascinated by the string of beheadings and lightning storms in NYC that year -- and all I can do is wonder why he's carrying a sword in his coat. "You make interesting enemies," he says finally, smiling a little.

"And you'd make a bad enemy. Yes."

"You're catching on. Good. There's a shower upstairs, and stew in the freezer. I'll show you where you can hide during the day." Nash doesn't wait for me to agree, just moves. Watching him tells me he's some kind of martial artist. Balanced, cocky son of a bitch.

I nod, even though he can't see it, and follow him up. Pity I'm too tired to enjoy the view on the stairs or out the windows of his living room -- how much money does this guy have, to own a place like this in Manhattan, and why wasn't that mentioned in the police or FBI files on that string of killings? Tired or not, I'm too paranoid not to look for the alarm system I clearly triggered, the one that isn't tied to any police monitoring system.

I can't find it. What kind of friends, or debtors, does this guy have?

Nash is fast, and good, and he doesn't trust the police. He beheads people he has to kill, which means the bounty hunters won't have a chance. And he's decided, for some insane reason, to help me. Fate owed me one. This is a hell of a pay off.

"Are you sure you're awake?" Dry, dry voice, and amused under it. Clean clothes land on the counter, and lotion, "For your arm." There's a bedroom through the other door of the bathroom, but it's clearly his. "You'll sleep with me." He glances at me, chuckles. "Not for that, thanks. I like my partners to have options. One bed in use, in case the police do bring a warrant."

"What, I'm going to owe you a favor?"

He just shakes his head. "No. If you get a chance to repay me, fine." Something's off there; he knows something I don't. "If you don't, don't worry about it. I've taken favors in my life. Call this a payment to an account already closed."

"You're giving me a dead man's dues?" My voice sounds huskier than usual, but it doesn't break and I keep it to curiosity, not disbelief. If they're dead, the accounts should be closed. Maybe Nash is serious. Maybe he's just crazy.

This time, Nash's laugh is amused -- first wickedly, then more honest, less edged. Combined with that grin it makes me lean towards unpredictable more than crazy. "Now that you mention it? Yes. Why not? It's not as if I never got paid that way. Get a shower and get that arm off before you rub the blisters into sores. I'll tell you about FitzCairn and Ramirez over the stew."

He turns away and leaves me there, calling over his shoulder, "And don't get into anything you shouldn't, man, or I'll have to find ways to keep you busy. You'd rather sleep."

All I can do is stare at him and try not to grin... even if I do want to nose into everything now. But if I don't, then he won't, for the duration, anyway. If I get caught by the police, all bets are off.

I bet Russell Nash could find someone who could decrypt this CD, and find ways to put it to good use. A man who quotes their own laws to police as if they should uphold them, as if _he would_, is a man who'd find a way to use whatever I stole that has the Consortium this pissed off at me.

I wonder what I found?

Once the disk is hidden and I'm under the water -- it took three minutes; let him think I was tired enough to have trouble shedding clothes and plastic arm -- I tilt my head back, let the water pour over my face, my throat, down chest and legs. Hot, wet, cleansing... a small stretch of heaven. I'm not in a cell. I'm not dead. That's enough for now.

I need food. I need sleep. I'd kill for coffee, almost. Not Nash, thanks; I need him. Besides -- I'm beginning to like the man. He's twisted, sharp, smart, and helping me. What more could I ask for? Oh. A warm body beside me that's not going to stab me. He's even going to give me that. What more could I ask for?

And why doesn't that question make me more nervous?

I've gotten used to doing things with one hand. I don't like it, but I've learned how to adapt and what actions are never going to work well with only one hand. It has to be this way; I can't afford to slow down just because I didn't have time to put my arm on or because I got caught and someone took it away. Towels work all right with one hand and a stump, shoelaces went the way of the dodo, and I've gotten used to Velcro, zippers, and buttons. Even taking time to enjoy the hot water, I'm still out and dressed in fifteen minutes. Time was I could do it in eight, but I lost a few minutes with my arm.

Sniffing the lotion tells me it does more than soothe the skin; there's a hint of something herbal to it. It's nothing chemical, and certainly nothing I recognize as poisonous, but I drop the tube in my shirt pocket to take down and ask him about. Hell if I'm using it before I know what it is and what it does.

The metal stairs are well constructed, but I let my steps clatter a little anyway. Nash nods to me from the kitchen. He's drinking red wine and stirring something on the stove that smells like beef, vegetables, and more cooking time than I've had to spare in years. "Stew, you said?"

"Stew." He grins suddenly. "Hope you're not picky about meat."

He's a little too amused so I just point out, "It doesn't stink enough to be goat."

"You have to be careful about skinning goat," he agrees, so deadpan that I'm not sure for a second if that means there's goat in the stew or not. "Beef, venison, veal bone while it was cooking, and rabbit. Root vegetables, some greens. Wine, spices, this and that. I didn't quite clean the refrigerator out making it, but I used up a few things."

"Sounds fine." I hand him the lotion. "What's in this?"

Nash takes another sip from his wine and hands it to me; it's still half-full, even after I've watched him drinking. He must have filled it to the rim. "Now that you know it's not poisoned." He pours himself another glass. "That's lanolin and distilled water, with a few other things as well. Angelica, cayenne, feverfew, St. John's wort, American ginseng, hops, rosemary, willow, yucca. No, almost forgot the black cohosh."

The wine smells good, and he could have taken an antidote while I was in the shower, but why bother? If he wanted me dead he could have shot me then, too. It's a good merlot, rich and strong. Must be one hell of a stew. Only after I've taken a sip do I ask, "So you want me to rub on stew ingredients, beer, and aspirin?"

Nash chuckles. "Lanolin and water is an old moisturizer, and your skin can use it with that prosthetic. Hops and willow are good for pain and headaches; cayenne heats up the skin and reduces swelling. Ginseng also helps with swelling, and boosts your immune system. Black cohosh, yucca and angelica help prevent arthritis, and angelica reduces muscle spasms. Feverfew earned its name. St. John's wort is good against infection and depression. Any other questions?"

"You left out the rosemary."

Nash just snorts. "Good for your skin, good against bone swelling, which you'll need, and it smells better than the rest, which is reason to add it by itself." He leans over, stirs the pot again. "Give it five minutes and this will be warm enough." Nash reaches into a breadbox, slow enough for me to be sure he's not getting a weapon. Four croissants come out; he slices them open, then pulls cheese over from the stove top.

Two of the croissants make it to me, spread with the cheese. It's creamy and almost sweet, and good enough that I could eat Nash's as well as my own. Not gulping my share is a bitch, but when I look up from it, there's a large bowl of stew in front of me and Nash is putting bottles on the table.

"Worcestershire?" I take a careful taste, then reach for the salt. "Thanks."

Nash shrugs, indicates the windows. "They're one-way glass. Don't worry too much about moving around in here during the day, but be careful where you turn on lights." He tastes his stew, adds pepper, starts eating.

It's an oddly comfortable silence with him, passing wine or salt after a glance rather than a spoken request. He gets up and refills both bowls of stew; I hunt through the breadbox until I find a half-loaf of something that looks like it came from a bakery rather than a supermarket and smells of Italian spices. Two slices of it go onto my plate, one onto his, and he puts cheese on all three without making me feel like a cripple.

Nash looks up when he's done eating, checks the clock, and nods. "They're not likely to be back tonight. If they were going to get a rush search warrant, they'd have done it by six, and been back here half an hour later."

Glancing down at my empty bowl helps hide my grin, and keeping my voice even is easier. "You sound like you have practice with New York's finest."

Nash snorts. "Only some of them count. And you knew that."

I shrug, then admit, "I've seen the files on that rash of beheadings back in the '80s." I don't mention that he looks exactly the same. He's too human to be a bounty hunter; they always slip _somewhere_. Nash is too prickly, too variable in too many human ways, to be a bounty hunter.

He's watching me when I put my spoon down, his eyes darker in the limited light from the kitchen and a lamp in the living room. "You're not police. Too contained and too used to bucking them. FBI once?"

"Not now?" I ask lightly.

"FBI wouldn't need to break in and hide with me." He's watching me, then he nods slowly. "And you've been running. FBI doesn't do that much either. I've asked no name of you, and I'm not asking why the police want you. I am asking if they want you, or if they've been suckered into working for someone else."

I already mapped out my best exits; now to find out when I need them. "If they caught me, they'd find out they want me. But they're looking on someone else's behalf."

Nash just nods. "So? Would you last out a night in a holding pen?"

My laughter's sharp and bitter. "Tonight? No."

"Idiot." That makes me look at him rather than the room and the exit routes. There's no sympathy there, nothing to soften me into breaking. He looks annoyed with me, as if I've given a wrong answer on an exam. "Your edges are too sharp for anyone to think you have trouble defending yourself. If you're going to let losing that arm make you into a cripple, do it somewhere else. If you want an extra hand getting lotion onto it, and maybe some naproxen now you've eaten, say so."

"Your bedside manner sucks but I'll take both." I stand up and start taking dishes to the sink. "Why do you have this cream on hand?"

"I have two friends with arthritis. New York winters play hell with it." Nash brings over the rest of the plates, dumps soap into the sink and starts water running. "I'll wash these later. How long since you've slept?"

"Last night." Before he can ask, I admit, "Three hours, but sleep."

"And sleep where you were watching your back." It's not a question, so I don't answer him. "Upstairs, then. You'll want rest once your arm's taken care of."

"Meaning I need sleep or that your lotion puts people to sleep? I know naproxen doesn't." He's been helping me, but this is ridiculous.

Nash just chuckles. "Once the naproxen and the cream kick in, you're going to be out of caffeine, out of hunger, and out of pain. Do you really think you're going to stay awake?"

"Have you canceled any plans?" I'm not about to admit he's right.

"Nothing's changed about my habits. I usually handle laundry and housework on Tuesdays." Nash just looks at me. "If you'd rather stay in pain, say so."

I shake my head. "I already said I'd take them. Fine. Upstairs it is. You just don't want me seeing you vacuum."

He grins at me. "I'm not handing you a duster, no. Or letting you roam through my bookshelves. I think you understand me too well already."

I head back up the stairs and, for once, I'm not worried about who's at my back. "I might at that. Do you always piss off cops?"

I can hear his footsteps behind me, and I know damn well it's deliberate noise. "What do you think?"

"That you expect them to follow the laws they're enforcing." That gets me one of his chuckles, husky and staccato as a Kalashnikov. That comparison makes me laugh, too. Nash doesn't ask why.

"You'd be right." He waves me into his room, peels the covers down. The top layer is overlapping Hudson Bay blankets, bright against the walls. Under those is a comforter of varying thickness, down, I think, and white flannel sheets. There's a piecework fur blanket across the foot of the bed, and a couple of thick pillows at the head. Nash just grins at me. "I like my comforts. In with you, and peel out of the shirt so I can work."

Part of me wants to argue. I swallow the words and unbutton the flannel shirt one-handed, to remind myself I can. Nash doesn't try to help; maybe he knows I'd hit him if he did. I peel out of boots, sweatpants, and socks, too, and climb under the covers wearing the briefs he loaned me, trying not to shiver. I've been back in the US too long; in Russia, I was used to being cold.

Nash lets me see him take the naproxen out of the bottle, passes me two, then his wine glass; he looks... concerned under that impassive expression. I'm not about to tell him the corners of his eyes give him away, and the tilt of his head. He takes the wine back and presses me down onto my belly, just firmly enough to indicate a direction, then the blankets come up over my back and good shoulder.

"Huh." He sounds skeptical, but I'm not sure what he's having trouble believing. A more contemplative noise warns me before he starts work. His hands aren't particularly gentle with that salve, and it's cold then hot, herbal and spicy all at once. Then his fingers dig in and I barely bite back the sound when he hits the first knot immediately.

The scary part is that he's good at it. Most people aren't. My muscles don't run as they should at the end of the stump, and usually only professionals massage them so they don't ache more from being rubbed into old alignments that don't _work_ any more. I can't afford to be remembered, so I've learned the new alignments myself. Nash gets it immediately. Either he's done this before or he mapped out the new patterns while he was rubbing that cream in. Maybe both.

Not until he pulls the fur up over my legs do I realize I'm shuddering. He shifts something under the stump to support it, maybe the flannel shirt I was wearing, and starts rubbing my back. Not soothing muscles; soothing me. Hard enough to be comforting, long, circular motions that make me want to snap that I'm hardly a child to be petted to sleep. The problem is, it feels good, and the shudders are letting up, and this is as safe as I've felt in years, with this sharp, dangerous man between me and his door.

"Warm enough?" He keeps his voice neutral, almost reserved. It lets me nod, which he takes for the reality: the fur comes up over my back and shoulder and Nash says calmly, "You've just been hurting too long. This'll pass. Try not to fight it."

"Done this before?" My voice is level enough, I think, but I realize my control's shot when I hear myself go on. "You don't look like it."

Nash just keeps rubbing my back. "I haven't asked your name. Don't ask about my past."

Spitting the word out hurts more than my arm but I manage. "Sorry."

"You're hurting." He settles the blankets further into place, goes back to soothing his damn lotion into my arm. The worst part is that it's helping. Cold, then warm, spicy in a way I could never mistake for Oil in my mouth, and the muscles are yielding, easing from knots I hadn't known were under the knots I _did_ know about. It's the relaxation that's so bad. I can tense against pain, but this comfort feels like it may kill me.

Warm, finally, with a t-shirt trapping the lotion against my skin. Unstrung, or unstringing, and is that like unsinging? How do you unsing something? Words can't be unsaid, how do notes fade? Cool air against my side wakes me completely to the realization that the noises I've heard in the background were nothing to worry me, and that Nash has been talking to me while he got ready for bed.

"Go back to sleep, man. No one's come. You're safe 'til morning." He pulls the blankets back up over us, shifts me back into the pocket of warmth, and sprawls along my side. One arm over my bottom ribs, one leg over mine, and I'm still not worried; he's left my arm free. All lethal edges, but he's guarding me. A soft chuckle falls between us.

"What's so funny?" I sound sleepy, and try to wake up.

"You're laughing," he says, and that chuckle is still under his words. But I'm under him... and clearly not awake.

"Huh." He's warm, though, and my nerves say I'm safe here. One of my senseis is speaking, clear as the first time he said it or the last, reminding me that the trick to hitting hard enough is to relax on the swing. My eyes are closed again, and I flex my hands, then relax into the darkness and sleep.

* * * *

The first two times, I wake to a strange body against me as I turn in the bed or he does. Each time, he wakes up, too, chuckles, and shifts to soothe me back to sleep. I don't feel like a spooked dog, and I have no clue what language he's speaking. It works, though. The third time, I wake to cold air and Nash's voice, husky as it was last night.

"Go back to sleep. I'm going running as usual, to see what in the area isn't as usual."

"Also as usual." He just grins, meaning I'm right. I already knew that from his voice. The sky's dark grey with low-hanging clouds blocking the sunlight, what there is of it so far. His clock says it's five-thirty. Nash is pulling on sweats, and tucking money and keys in his pockets. He straps a knife on each arm as I watch. "Anything I should know if someone comes and you're not here?"

"They'll have to force the door, and the alarm will go off. You'll hear it -- more chime than siren, but you'll know it. Go through the back of the closet. The latch is behind the second shelf of sweaters: reach straight through, at my shoulder level. The shelves pull forward. There's no light in the stairs, but they wind down to an old priest's hole."

He watches me, making sure I'm awake and listening, then nods. "Spiral staircase, man, and narrow; watch your step. It goes down below street level, but there's food, water, and a variety of clothes and blankets cached down there." Nash grins at me. "And a battery-powered lamp and some old mysteries. Wait for me if it comes to that. I may be a day making sure it's all clear."

"Setting your lawyer on them you mean." It's reassuring to deal with someone else who expects things to go wrong. I yawn and burrow back into the warmth, wanting to stockpile this while I can get it.

"Exactly." Nash glances out the window, shrugs, and says, "You've no fingerprints in my house just now. Try to keep it that way." That quickly he's gone, as silent as I would be.

One minute passes, then two, four, seven. Nash hasn't come back, so, much as I'd rather sleep, I slip out of bed. I leave it a rumpled mess with my pillow upended (both surfaces will feel cool to the touch if anyone checks), and ghost down into the kitchen.

He'd better be right about those windows being one-way glass; there is no way to come down those stairs without being visible. There has to be at least one more way down, above and beyond the priest's hole, but I'm not interested in looking for it now. If he's setting me up, it's too late to dodge it and why tell anyone I know it's coming? If he hasn't set me up, I'll be breaking our informal agreement and I can't afford an enemy like Nash.

Worse, the son of a bitch left coffee going. The smell of it sets my mouth watering -- strong, rich, and nothing any gas station or convenience store could sell and make a profit. Leaving it there almost hurts, but I'm too far in his debt already, and I can't spare the time. He's gone. Time I got out of here.

My clothes are clean, set in a neat stack in the bathroom as if they're waiting for him to get back from his run. Nash really doesn't miss a--

There's a note poking out. What the fuck?

> > A man should have options.   
> Consider this one.

Options? Oh. It takes a second to realize I'm studying it the way I'd study a detonator. It might be that dangerous, too. When I thought Nash was trading me safety for sex, he said he likes his partners to have options. Like saying no. He did know how desperate I was. Fuck.

I'm too tired to keep my eyes closed for more than a second, so I open them and go to get my arm from under the bed, which is on a rug that looks and walks like something more expensive than I want to think about. I avoid leaving prints on the bed frame, and if I leave my footprints on the floor, so what? Those aren't in any database, including the Consortium's.

The clothes go on quickly and I rub the back of my arm along any spot I might have left prints, just in case Nash did miss a trick. The boots go on, the knives into place, the CD goes back into my shirt pocket, and I still have to make up my mind what to do with that note.

Fuck it.

A hand towel between my skin and the paper before I move it and there are still no prints on that paper except Nash's. I put the towel back and head downstairs fast and quiet despite the way my boots would like to ring on the steel. My jacket's hanging on the coat rack, blatant and unquestionable, and there's no doubt in my mind that Nash would claim it for his and come up with a concealed carry permit to cover the gun. Nice. Very nice.

I take it and go, down the stairs to the living room, through the hallway behind the kitchen, past the door to the next flight of stairs (unlocked, I notice; the cocky bastard knew I'd leave while he was gone, didn't he?), and down into the shop. Sure enough, Nash has got eyeholes here and there in the wall. I find them by looking for places he could worm into where _I'd_ put them.

The alley's clear. If anyone was looking for me, they're after Nash to see if he's dropping me supplies. More likely, they've decided I slid through their net yesterday.

I wrap my coat around me, slip my hand into the pocket to be sure my knife's still in the lining, and go out the door without trying to deactivate the alarm. Let him know I got clear. I owe him that much at least.

It's pre-dawn grey as I come out of the alleyway. I keep moving rather than be silhouetted by the streetlights. I memorize the landmarks by habit, and make a note of the street numbers because I might want them later. No point in getting my hopes up. Nash is pro enough himself to see it the same way.

But I think he'll figure out why I left that note under his pillow.  


_~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~_

_Comments, Commentary, Miscellanea:_

  
Yes, that is the precise wording for the fourth amendment to the US constitution. Connor MacLeod/Adrian Montague/Russell Nash fought for US independence; so far as he's concerned, the Constitution _will_ be properly upheld by police. Gods help them if they don't.

The headline listed comes from the first Highlander movie. There were high-profile deaths in at least two states (New York and New Jersey) during the movie, therefore there _is_, somewhere, an FBI file on this. Quite possibly, the file number starts with 'X'.

Alex thinks beheading bounty hunters ought to incapacitate their blood the way pithing them does. He might even be right.

The herbs listed are useful against arthritis per online sources, my own knowledge, or both, and all should, I believe, be safe externally. That doesn't mean I'm suggesting you work up a similar lotion, nor that I know the extractions, or proportions, that Connor used.

A Kalashnikov is a Russian automatic rifle. It makes an odd, stuttering chatter when fired on full auto. Hudson Bay blankets were originally (and are still) sold by the Hudson Bay Company. Thick wool, in wide, bright stripes -- very warm, and very bright. Connor likes them, which makes me wonder, knowing him, if he stole them.

And yes, actually, Connor MacLeod/Alex Krycek is high on my list of perfect matches. ::g:: Why do you ask?


End file.
